oes. In their heart of
hearts, all knew that they were concoctions, and the haruspices laughed
when they met each other.

Supper was early at Mrs. Paynter's, as though to atone for the tardiness
of yesterday. The boarders dispatched it not without recurring
cheerfulness, broken now and again by fits of decorous silence. You
could see that by to-morrow, or it might be next day, the house would be
back in its normal swing again.

Mr. Queed withdrew to his little chamber. He trod the steps softly for
once, and perhaps this was why, as he passed Mrs. Paynter's room, his
usually engrossed ear caught the sound of weeping, quiet but
unrestrained, ceaseless, racking weeping, running on evermore, the
weeping of Rachel for her children, who would not be comforted.

The little Doctor shut the door of the Scriptorium and lit the gas. So
far, his custom; but here his whim and his wont parted. Instead of
seating himself at his table, where the bound _Post_ for January-March,
1902, awaited his exploration, he laid himself down on his tiny bed.

If he were to die to-night, who would weep for him like that?

The thought had come unbidden to his mind and stuck in his metaphysics
like a burr. Now he remembered that the question was not entirely a new
one. Fifi had once asked him who would be sorry if he died, and had
answered herself by saying that she would. However, Fifi was dead, and
therefore released from her promise.

Yes, Fifi was dead. He would never help her with her algebra again. The
thought filled him with vague, unaccountable regrets. He felt that he
would willingly take twenty minutes a night from the wrecked Schedule to
have her come back, but unfortunately there was no way of arranging that
now. He remembered the night he had sent Fifi out of the dining-room for
coughing, and the remembrance made him distinctly uncomfortable. He
rather wished that he had told Fifi he was sorry about that, but it was
too late now. Still he had told her that he was her friend; he was glad
to remember that. But here, from a new point of view, was the trouble
about having friends. They took your time while they lived, and then
they went off and died and upset your evening's work.

Clearly, Fifi left behind many sorrowful friends, as shown by her
remarkable funeral. If he himself were to die, Tim and Murphy Queed
would probably feel sorrowful, but they would hardly come to the
funeral. For one thing, Tim could not come because of his dut